


Unanticipated

by mrasaki



Category: Final Fantasy VIII
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-29
Updated: 2009-06-29
Packaged: 2017-10-07 06:01:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrasaki/pseuds/mrasaki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Girls, he loved girls, but this was the tricky part with many of them: you couldn't be too insistent or if you timed it wrong the whole thing was over. But Squall knew instantly what the push meant and went on his knees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unanticipated

**Author's Note:**

> For the [](http://community.livejournal.com/springkink/profile)[**springkink**](http://community.livejournal.com/springkink/) prompt “Final Fantasy VIII, Squall/Irvine: Sleeping with the boss – ‘Now ... How about that raise?’”

Irvine wasn’t easily surprised, which was something he prided himself on. _If _and when he was surprised, he considered himself pretty good at responding with debonair aplomb and witty repartee.

So, it hadn’t been a particular surprise when he’d been summoned to the front gate of Galbadia Garden to be commissioned on his third mission as a SeeD, finding that he was teamed with his childhood friends whom he hadn’t seen since his adoption when he was eight. Of course, he _had _kept track of the various divergences of their lives in a sort of apathetic teenager way, and had generally known which Gardens they’d been inducted into. He'd also known when they’d graduated and known the odds were good of their meeting again.

And it hadn't been a surprise at all—more an unpleasant dawning of awareness—that they remembered him and their mutual past not at all. After all, GF use was highly controversial because of its detrimental effects, and it was well known that Balamb and Trabia Gardens used GFs extensively. It was, in fact, a running joke at Galbadia Garden that once Balamb and Trabia had fraternized more until both forgot where the other was.

So, he wasn’t easily surprised.

But.

How could he have anticipated that the Sorceress he’d be assigned to kill would be _Matron_?

That would’ve thrown anyone for a loop.

No one else had realized who she was, and he still wasn’t sure if it wasn’t that horror more than what Matron had become that had made him choke. He’d choked _spectacularly_, and after all the agonized soul searching and Squall’s desperate pleading and reassurances, it hadn’t mattered one bit, the bullet effortlessly deflected by a Protect spell. Well, damn. Relief and humiliation at the same time and surprise, too. Who knew it could happen?

Surprise after unpleasant surprise, and Irvine was getting heartily sick of surprises. His entire game plan was in shambles.

And then to be assaulted after the chaos of two Gardens attacked and one Garden suddenly mobile (which definitely counted in the category of surprise), by Squall, who was _commander _and resident ice queen and who he distinctly remembered as a child spending most of his time either crying after Sis or trying to seriously injure Seifer with small, grimy fists, and who now currently had him backed up against a wall on 2F. It was just about as much as he could take.

He’d never pegged Squall as a particularly sexual person of any persuasion, but here the SeeD was, both hands planted on opposite sides of Irvine’s head, confining him within the cage of his arms and giving Irvine an intense look that Irvine understood very well. This was entirely enough. No man could be expected to be this forbearing.

“Despite what you might hear and what you might think,” Irvine said, not moving to push Squall away but giving him the best, most serious glare he could summon, “I am not that easy. So _get off_.”

Squall’s expression only tightened, intensifying in that determined_ I get what I want_ way that Irvine found vaguely frightening when it was directed at him. “I haven’t heard anything I particularly believe,” Squall informed him, close enough so he could feel Squall’s breath ghosting across his face, “and I haven’t made my own opinions just yet.”

He leaned closer and kissed him. Squall’s mouth was hard and the kiss was wet and sloppy and demanding, forcing Irvine’s head sharply against the wall, and surprise of all surprises in a week full of them, Squall was good at it.

Irvine wondered where Squall had learned such things, and his imaginative mind did a quick spastic flipflop as several graphic images of Squall and various male SeeDs around the Garden arose.

His hands rose, palms leaving damp sweat-spots on the wall, to tangle in the front of Squall’s jacket. He tried to shove him away, but for all that Irvine was taller, Squall was heavier, simply having more muscle needed to use his gunblade.

He didn’t want to knee Squall in the privates as Squall was still his superior officer no matter what, and he had no desire to call attention to the fact that he, the lady-killer, was being groped in the hallways by another _guy_, even if it was late at night. But panic began to flicker around the edges of his vision as Squall coaxed frozen lips open and explored the inside of Irvine’s mouth with rough swipes of his tongue and tangled his fingers in the strands of Irvine’s hair, calluses catching and snagging, and showed absolutely no signs of letting up.

A surge of adrenaline lent him strength and he socked Squall in the ribs, just hard enough to get his attention. Squall pulled back, cocking his head, and regarded him with knowing hazel eyes that were tired but amused.

Panting, with the smell of Squall still full in his nostrils and feeling his face throb with heated blood, Irvine said, “Squall, I’m _straight_.”

“Are you?” A slight quirk of the corner of his lips, and Squall’s eyes shifted downwards and rested on Irvine’s crotch, where he was made suddenly aware in a painful rush of an erection that was making his pants uncomfortably tight. Irvine gasped and snatched his coat close about himself, sliding down the wall to land hard on his ass. He drew his legs up protectively against his chest.

“What do you want from me?” he asked plaintively, exhausted and wondering how it was that so many unshakeable constants in his life were suddenly overturned in the space of one month. And they weren’t tiny things like buttered-toast-always-lands-butter-side-down, but fundamental pillars of his life as important as gravity-keeps-me-on-the-ground-and-not-flung-into-space-by-the-planet’s-velocity. Damn Squall, things had started getting fucked up in the natural order of things the moment he’d shown up at Galbadia Garden.

Leather-clad legs and heavy boots stepped into his view of the floor, then knees bent and Squall sat in front of him. Irvine felt his regard like a weight pressing against his head.

When Squall replied, it was so soft Irvine almost missed it.

“Some—sometimes I look at you, and…you seem so familiar for some reason, like I’ve known you before…” A soft sigh. “Like from past life or a dream. Déjà vu? You know?”

Irvine blinked hard at him, seized by the hysterical urge to laugh. This was too fucking surreal. Didn’t the other Gardens warn their students about GFs at all?

“And sometimes you look at me like you know me too.”

“Uh, Squall,” he tried. He’d already decided before this whole crazy situation that no matter what happened, he wouldn’t be the one to spill the beans. It would entail too much collateral damage, what with trying to kill Mother Edea aka Evil Wicked Sorceress, and he didn’t need the guilt, theirs or his. On the other hand, probably no one would believe him. He wasn’t sure which of the two outcomes he preferred.

Squall didn’t appear to have heard him, practically talking to the floor with his head bowed and soft bangs brushing his face and obscuring his eyes. “And then all these weird things have been happening, and I don’t know why!” His voice rose, words tumbling out of him like whatever restraint he’d been using had snapped. “And they want me to take care of things and be commander—fuck, I just graduated, what the hell do I know!” He lifted his head and Irvine was pinned by the weight of the misery and guilt and frustration in his eyes.

“Squall…”

“Nothing makes sense anymore!” A gloved fist hit the floor with a dead thud and Irvine winced, remembering the angry, silent child Squall had been. Squall hadn’t changed all that much since then. Still angry. A bit less silent.

“Everyone wants something from me,” Squall said after a pause, once again quiet, and then sighed.

“What do _you _want, then?” Irvine asked, then stopped, wishing he could take back the words. Considering events that’d happened not so long ago, he might not like the answer. He was straight, dammit, and loved women and breasts and soft hips and all the things that came with femaleness, and had never once even remotely considered what it would be like to try things out on the other side of the proverbial fence. But now Squall’s kiss was a curse; improper thoughts that, an hour ago, he had never dreamed of ever pondering chased themselves around inside his head.

Squall peered into his eyes, as if trying to ransack Irvine’s thoughts. “Maybe I just want something to be uncomplicated for a change,” he said softly.

“Um, well,” Irvine tried, desperately trying to think of a way to at least sound sympathetic, “Well, you think hitting on me is going to fix that?”

“No, actually,” Squall returned, giving him a slitted cat look Irvine hadn’t even known was in Squall’s repertoire, and slid his hand up to Irvine’s crotch as the other was planted on the wall next to Irvine’s head. Irvine spasmed as Squall’s hand cupped his balls. “It might make it a little more bearable, though.”

Irvine tried his best not to squeak, but he definitely made an unmanly noise as Squall squeezed just as he leaned forward, and began doing that messy, dirty, wet open-mouthed kiss against Irvine’s adam’s apple, and it was tickling and horrifying but also _good _and he couldn’t help making more of the high unmanly noises while writhing upwards into the mouth and the tight grip.

He didn’t know what to do with his hands. With girls this was just so much broken ground, and girls just had so much to touch, soft places everywhere, and he couldn’t exactly try to get to second base with a guy when guys didn’t have _breasts_, could he? He settled for hesitantly touching Squall’s neck, and then his hair—no hair products for the fearless leader, it seemed—and Squall moaned into his neck as he clenched his fists in it. One particularly hard open-palming made him jerk his hips up frantically, and maybe _he _didn’t know what he was doing with a guy, but his dick sure seemed to have no issues at all and his hands were not only kneading Squall’s scalp but also inexorably pushing _down_.

Girls, he loved girls, but this was the tricky part with many of them: you couldn’t be too insistent or if you timed it wrong the whole thing was over. But Squall knew instantly what the push meant. He trailed down Irvine’s ribcage with his hands like he was memorizing every bump and then he pulled at Irvine’s hips to move him forward – oh god, positioning him – and nudged his knees apart, settling in between.

Then slender hands were at Irvine’s belt buckle. Irvine, somewhere in the back of his sex-hazed mind, felt a niggle of annoyance that Squall Leonhart didn’t fumble even in this. His motions were assured and efficient, methodical just like he was taking an exam, and couldn’t Squall just show one humanizing crack while he was busy turning Irvine’s world upside-down?

But he forgot to be annoyed as Squall undid and unbuttoned and pulled him out, and the air of the overly-air-conditioned corridor was chill on his cock before Squall sucked the head into his mouth in one practiced movement. No preamble, no preparation. Just…efficient.

Irvine panted out loud, his fists still buried in Squall’s hair. He didn’t know what’d started the Trepies off, but he was pretty sure he was going to start a fanclub to Squall’s _hair_. It was silky, it was long enough to hold and it was so very hard not to just fist it and push down and thrust up because this was, after all, his boss. And oh god, how would he be able to look Squall in the eye during the next godawful Garden meeting and not think about how Squall looked, pretty lips wrapped around Irvine’s cock, thick eyelashes brushing dark against slanted cheekbones, and actually be able to concentrate on the mundane details of strategy and weapons upgrade budgets and hot dog supplies?

And Squall, of course he was good at this, where had he gotten the practice?—wasn’t rushing, just a slow leisurely exploration with suction and long licks and the shivery dangerous scratch of teeth, and that hot, slick mouth, teasing him. He opened his eyes and looked up at Irvine through those lashes, his eyes promising dirty, dirty things, just at the moment that he swallowed Irvine down to the very base. Irvine had two split second thoughts –_Hallelujah_—and—_bad angle_—before he felt the head bump the back of Squall’s throat, and his heels dug into the plasti-rubber textured floor and he lurched up, and he knew he looked wanton, he felt wanton and gods, that just made it hotter— knees splayed as wide as his tangled pants would let him and hips cocked up as high as he could lever them, hands clenched in the hair. His head hit the wall hard, the pain only dimly felt. He was coming, and he was distinctly less concerned with whether Squall wanted warning or was going to choke or spit, over the extremely important job of cramming himself as far into Squall’s mouth as he could go.

Squallies. He’d name the fanclub the Squallies.

Irvine panted, his pants in a puddle around his thighs and leaned against the wall for dear life. He licked his lips and then stopped abruptly as he saw Squall sitting back on his heels, delicately wiping at the corner of his mouth.

Irvine blurted the first thing that came to mind, thoughts totally fried, “I’m still straight,” though immediately he mentally slapped himself. He’d just proven himself a bit _bent_, hadn’t he, he thought rather hysterically. “Um, haha, how about a raise then?” then mentally slapped himself harder.

The usually grim line of Squall’s full mouth now curved into a small smirk. “Right…” he said, with that eloquent quirk of his eyebrow that had let him get through life with a minimum of talking.

“I mean,”Irvine nearly babbled, “do you need—I should—” He shouldn’t be selfish, he had to—what if Squall wanted—well, it was only _fair_—

“I finished,” Squall told him. Irvine realized that Squall looked pleased with himself. He gaped.  
“Wh—what, in your _pants_? Aren’t those leather?” Squall stood, rubbing his hands together like he was trying to clean them, except those weren’t his _hands_, because Squall was still wearing his gloves.

Squall Leonhart had just given him a blowjob with his gloves on. Irvine’s mind reeled yet again, and he wondered just how many shocks a mind could take before one’s sanity began to totter.

Squall gave him a shrug, and a “Whatever,” looking for all the world like he hadn’t given Galbadia Garden’s number one sniper some of the most spectacular head Irvine had ever had. With gloves on.

Irvine ran a trembling hand through his hair and muttered, “I didn’t just think that, did I?” Squall gave him a curious look, then his eyes slid away. “Thanks,” he said, so low Irvine almost didn’t hear.

Irvine was tempted to tell him that introducing previously not-so-straight guy friends into the wonders of gay sex was seriously not the way most folks went about confiding their problems, plus usually it was the _receiver_, not the giver, who was supposed to express gratitude, but he decided not to press it. Hell, Squall had _thanked _him, when had that ever happened before? But he was now too tired to muster much appropriately shocked reaction over his wet lap, much less Squall’s sudden acquirement of a basic social skill.

“You’re welcome,” he said instead.

“Hm.”

“I was just joking about that raise, you know.”

“And I wasn’t. Take the advancement test like everyone else.”

“You have no sense of humor,” Irvine sighed, hitching himself up enough to pull up his pants. Then he paused, unsure how to ask. “Erm, what now?”

A black gloved hand appeared in front of his face and after a moment of staring blankly at it, he took it. Squall hauled him to his feet and regarded him steadily. “Wherever you want to go.”

Okay. Which maybe included just going back to his room alone—he could use a shower—or following Squall to his room and having a shower there, or even heading over to the Cafeteria for late-night hot dogs, he was kinda hungry or—Squall interrupted his indecision by giving a sharp slap on the rump, slightly wicked amusement in his eyes. “Well, aren’t you coming?” he asked, then walked off in the direction of his quarters.

That was it. Irvine decided he didn’t like surprises. And when had Squall had so many expressions? He dithered for a moment longer, then curiosity overcame him and he followed after Squall. One couldn’t be surprised anymore if one _expected _to be, right?

Wait, had Squall just given him an angsty sob story just to get into Irvine’s pants?


End file.
